


The Morning After

by Hyperius (Euregatto)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Marriage, And Because Phasma Has a Bad Day, Everyone Else Has a Bad Day, Multi, Other, Phasma Has a Bad Day, This is just straight up crack I wrote while mildly intoxicated, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-28 03:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Hyperius
Summary: The mighty Captain Phasma awakens the morning after a celebratory dinner, hungover and mildly murderous, to a wedding band she doesn't remember receiving. And unfortunately, her quest to find her significant other (with the hopes of rightfully beating them to death) has everyone else involved in her day.





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> My boyfriend and I made some drinks, made some jokes, downed the drinks, and then...I made this. This never should have seen the light of day yet here I am, throwing my good standing with the Lord Above right out the window.

 

The Morning After

  

   

Captain Phasma awakens against her will and her head wants to crack like an egg shell. She doesn’t have to look at her bedside clock to know she’s overslept. Which is unfortunate. A regal and dignified woman of her power within the ranks of the infamous First Order should _never_ rise later than her peers and must _always_ hold an air of command throughout the day, no matter how physically or mentally exhausted.

Right now, Phasma thinks the prim and proper standard can go fuck itself.

She remembers, quite fortunately, _most_ of the events of last night – a celebratory dinner that went smooth as ice, an after party that went surprisingly _better_ because there was a gratuitous amount of alcohol involved. Phasma, however, can’t quite grasp what happened after she sat at the bar to throw back shots with Hux and Ren. Regardless, she’ll probably hear the stories as the day progresses.

Eventually she manages to heave herself out of bed, searches her nightstand for headache relievers, dumps half the bottle into her hand, and drags her feet into the bathroom. She takes three pills for good measure with a handful of the thankfully refreshing sink water.

Then she does a double take because that’s when she fully sees it – the glint of white gold forged into a perfect circle around her fourth digit. Her eyes narrow suspiciously at the metalcraft abomination.

A _wedding band_ , on _her_ finger?

There wasn’t a single person in the entire galaxy stupid enough to risk tying the knot with a woman like _her_ , unless they had nothing short of severe mother issues.

Phasma’s blood broils with the thought. Setting her jaw, she makes some semblance of an attempt at finishing her routine – shower, stretch, throw the ring in a fit of anger against the far wall (that’s a new addition to the list), replace the ring because it’s actually quite lovely, and finally, dress.

In her armor, Phasma shakes her men to their very cores. She’s a subtle reminder of how the top of the food chain operates.

And she knows exactly what comes next.

First, caf to ease the hangover. Then, Captain Phasma was going to find her significant other, beat them within an inch of their life, and then kill the paralegal asshole who allowed them to say, “I do.” Her plan is _flawless_.

(If only she knew what fine hell awaited her.)

   

   

  

*

   

  

  

The entire fleet must be collectively set back from the party because she arrives in the mess hall and it’s relatively quiet despite being packed. There’s a few groans of exasperation, a handful of short-ended conversations, the clattering of utensils. The Stormtroopers are allowed some semblance of down time during meals, but even _they_ seem to be feeling the after effects of the celebration.

Phasma treks across the room and collects a protein bar and a cup of hot, pitch black caf. At the front of the hall is a table raised on a platform with three chairs spread evenly apart. Hux occupies the left seat with his attention fixated on his tablet, and his feline, Millicent, is at the edge of the table, his tail twitching curiously. Kylo Ren is to the far right, his head in his hands, annoyance written all over his features. Around him, six different disposable cups, once sources of caf densely saturated with sugar, lay scattered. Hux just drinks from a mug.

Neither of them look at their colleague as she settles into the middle chair, and part of her wonders if either of them remembers anything. She removes her helmet and carefully sets it to her right. Her eyes glimpse between them.

“I need you two to listen to me _carefully_ ,” she says, her tone edged by malice. “Slowly, and very _discreetly_ , remove your gloves.”

Hux almost looks offended. “I beg your pardon?”

Phasma clears her throat, her expression placid despite the venom in her speech. “Take off. Your gloves. _Now_. So I can see. Your hands.”

Ren furrows his brow. “I never realized we had _that_ kind of relationship.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Hux demands to know, setting down his mug and tablet. “Your behavior is concerning, Phasma. Are you overdue for your evaluation?”

Phasma’s jaw clenches and unclenches. She’s just about ready to punch them both in the throat. “I don’t need an _evaluation_ , General, I need you to _remove your gloves_.”

Finally, Hux sighs, and he tugs off his gloves one finger at a time. He glares at Ren who grumbles out a reluctant, “Fine.” Gradually, both pairs lay on the table, and the two men have their hands splayed out for inspection.

To her relief, neither of them wears a ring. Phasma ponders for a moment what being married to Kylo Ren would entail – it’d be the emotional equivalent of a constipated Bantha, probably – and shudders. She could at least count on having decent conversations with Hux in the morning, bedside manner and all that.

“Are you finished?” Hux hisses and picks up his mug, pressing the rim to his lips.

Phasma's gaze stubbornly diverts elsewhere. "Yes."

Ren scoffs, taking up his seventh cup of caf and swirling around the last remnants of the liquid as if inspecting it. “I’m assuming you aren’t thrilled about the marriage then,” he says, and throws back the rest of the drink.

Hux sputters and chokes on his tea.

Phasma’s hands curl into fists. If he wasn’t Snoke’s ~~pawn~~ apprentice, she would choke him in front of everyone. “What do you know?”

“Are you implying you don’t remember?” Ren seems as befuddled as they are, so he relents. “I can hardly recall much, but it started with—”

“What’s hanging party crowd?!” Poe Dameron exclaims as he enters the mess hall, shooting finger guns at any of the Stormtroopers he vaguely recognizes, and the First Order execs look at him like he’s the sun – intrusive, a headache in the making. He struts around the room, collecting a tray of food and a cup of caf, and high-fiving several of the troopers when they make the gesture. Hux’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and Phasma’s jaw tightens with resentment.

As the Resistance pilot wedges himself between two troopers at a table, Ren, without looking at either of his colleagues, says, _“Him.”_


End file.
